


let my doubts go

by Nebbles



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Mentions of Character Death, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Verdant Wind route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebbles/pseuds/Nebbles
Summary: The war's weighed so heavily on Dorothea's heart, how it's torn her friends apart and cast a dark cloud across Fodlan.So much has changed, except the fact Hilda's always been at her side.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	let my doubts go

**Author's Note:**

> help i've fallen into another rarepair and i can't get up
> 
> big thanks to [kay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming) for beta reading this for me <3

When a performer takes the stage to offer an elegy to death, to lament those who have left us, often are they rewarded for their talent in turning a concept so ugly into something hauntingly beautiful. Dorothea’s no stranger to such flattery, to the kind, yet empty words her songs have received. Perhaps it’s a way for others to cope with losses of their own, to absorb the lyrics, to hold them close to their heart, to hold the memory of their loved ones close. 

After Jeralt’s death, so many years ago, Dorothea first questioned how truly helpful these songs could be. No matter how beautiful the lyrics were, they wouldn’t have undone the sadness she saw in the professor’s eyes. 

Soldiers and citizens alike left this world as the war blazed on. No matter the lands Dorothea had traveled, they often carried the same sentiment: no beautiful voice carried the power to mend a shattered soul. Nevertheless, she pressed on, trying to prevent her own heart from withering into ash. 

During this time, she had let her mind wander, to ruminate on how her friends fared. Wondering if the war was any kinder to them, and if they were struggling to survive as the days blended into one amalgamated mess. 

She traveled. She sang despite the bitter winters that nipped at her cheeks and wore at her throat. She endured the frigid nature of Faerghus, the way the split Alliance lands made her feel like no more than a beautiful stranger who could only offer her voice. She endured the way it reminded her of those terrible days in the Empire, and how those days somehow hurt less than the past five years.

It hardly came as a surprise how ugly war tended to be, but it scarred her heart nonetheless. Dorothea wasn’t sure how many familiar faces she would see, and felt something heavy in her stomach when not everyone came back for the promise that had been set. 

Not counting those of the Golden Deer, alongside herself were Petra, Ferdinand, Sylvain, Felix, and Ashe. Claude and the Professor seemed just as unhappy with this discovery, but pressed on regardless. 

Ailell’s heat blazed in her memory. She recalls the hesitation in the professor’s sword, how it struck down Ashe--not to kill, but to keep him off the battlefield after they convinced him to set aside his bow. It’s not hard to recall the long days he spent in recovery, how her and Professor Manuela’s spells fought to keep him _alive_ as Ignatz worriedly watched with tears in his eyes.

He had pulled through, and it brought her such joy to see Ignatz nearly tackle him over in the bed with a watery laugh, relief in his eyes. With a playful tone, Manuela had told them to take it easy, and gently escorted Dorothea out of the room to grant them privacy. 

“Aren’t they a cute couple?” Manuela had shaken her head with a bitter smile. “I’m so glad we were able to save him. I couldn’t imagine seeing one of these kids die… it would have weighed so terribly on my heart. 

Dorothea had missed the jabs she had made out of petty jealousy. Regret and grief did not suit Manuela. It was hardly an ensemble that fit anyone, how it hung over their shoulders, drowning them in its wake.

Myrddin leaves Dorothea with a heavy heart, although she does not know why. The enemy general that defends the northern front is a face she does not recognize, and yet for a moment she sees a flicker of orange hair. 

Ferdinand and Lorenz fight side by side in perfect rhythm as they push back the Imperial army. Her heart twists, as if a different world may have not been so kind to them.

When nightmares of those worlds come to mind, Dorothea finds herself curled up in the terribly small beds that the monastery offers, Hilda’s hand gliding down her back in comfort. She hated this terrible war as well: how it hurt her friends, how she sees how tired Claude is under every wisecrack he makes in the cardinal’s room.

She’s always fancied Hilda, whether they’ve joked about silly noble boys and their preening ways over cups of tea, the lovely way she presents herself, how clever she is under those pretty eyes and soft, pink lips that carry a smile far from innocent. It’s a shame to see how the war’s changed her, but Dorothea figures it’s better to see a weathered Hilda than one who’s lost her life.

It’s Gronder Field that shakes her the most. It’s the blood that dyes the verdant plains a sickly crimson .It’s the familiar faces who lose their lives in a frenzy.

It’s how she sees Ingrid’s body hit the ground with a sickening _crack_ as Sylvain and Felix do nothing in her last moments. It’s the gruesome way Dimitri tears through any soldiers he sees, Empire or Alliance ripped apart with his lance that gleams with sunlit blood. It’s how Bernie, sweet and innocent Bernie, shrieks out in fear as flames lick up the stronghold while Ashe and Ignatz try to save her. 

It’s how there’s hardly any time to mourn their fallen friends, how their corpses pave the battlefield with glassy eyes. They’re forced to march on, old ties meaning nothing as Ferdinand raises a lance towards Hubert, and how his hand glows with a sickly, purple miasma that aims to stop his heart.

The professor hardly hesitates in their swings. Hubert and Edelgard fall back, and the chaos comes to an end as there’s nothing but a soft crackling of flames. 

When Hilda tells them Dimitri’s dead, tears in those pretty, big eyes of hers, the world comes to a screeching halt. 

A swear comes from Sylvain, and Felix’s grimace is louder than any cries of war. The bow in Ashe’s hands clatter to a ground slick with death’s remains. Ignatz is quick to catch him as Ashe’s knees buckle, and his sobs burn their way into Dorothea’s mind. 

He’s too good for this war. Perhaps that’s a phrase true for them all; that underneath all the taut bowstrings and flashes of steel, they’re still children underneath the guise of a weary soldier whose steps are soaked in blood. 

Death is _ugly._ Dorothea wonders what beauty she saw in those ballads long ago. 

The sounds of the battlefield, the smell of blood and iron… no lyrics could mask their horrors. To dress up the tragedy of Gronder to put on stage is an idea that churns Dorothea’s stomach, blood cold as ice. Certain topics never deserve to make their way onto the stage, and she wonders if loss shall join their ranks. It’s an insult to the ones they’ve been forced to bury, to have their final moments be nothing more than a bittersweet aria.  
  
The march back to the monastery is quiet. Dorothea’s hand makes its way to Hilda’s, and offers a gentle squeeze. Even if she’s caked in sweat and blood (and doesn’t complain, though Dorothea misses her annoyed whines), a tired smile makes its way onto her face.

They’ll press on. They always do.  
  


* * *

  
“And… there.” Hilda sets down her brush with a warm smile. “You’re as good as new, Dorothea.”

Her mask is back in place, one of a songstress who is always perfect on stage. It’s a relief to have her true self hidden; nobody’s ever wanted it anyway. Hilda’s the only one who’s gone beneath the surface and hasn’t pushed her away. Everyone has an ugly side, and they’ve crawled to the surface during this terrible war. Dorothea has little need to recount the ways she’s seen it manifest in her friends, how the sun doesn’t shine in Ferdinand’s eyes, or how Sylvain and Felix seem more jaded then ever. 

“Thank you, Hilda.” She admires the flawless application, the way it highlights her pretty smile and sparkling eyes. But those won’t last forever, will they? What if Hilda decides she’s tired with what’s under them? “I’m honored you took the time out of your day for me.” 

“Aw, I’ll always make time for you.” She rests her hands on Dorothea’s shoulders. “Whether it’s to fix your make-up or just to chat, my door is always open.” 

“Don’t you have better things to do then spend your time with little old me?” Sweet, sweet Hilda, lovelier than the perfume she wears. 

A pout forms on her lips, “Dorothea! When did I ever say you were bothering me? The only person who ever, ever bugs me is Holst. And are you him? Nope!”

She certainly _hopes_ she isn’t like big, scary General Holst from all the stories she’s heard, from Hilda or the gossip among soldiers. “That’s awfully sweet of you to say, but I can’t expect you to fix my makeup after every battle.”

Hilda’s eyebrows knit together for a moment. It’s not in frustration, and it’s not pity. Dorothea wonders if she’s too tired to place the emotion. She makes her way to the bed, and pats the space next to her. As if guided by a mysterious force, Dorothea finds her head upon Hilda’s shoulder, eyes closed with a sigh. “It’d be an insult to you, undoing your hard work…”

Delicate fingers run through soft tresses, as Hilda’s other hand rests atop Dorothea’s. “I like spending time with you. Even if I had to reapply your mascara several times a day, I’d never get tired of it.”

“I thought you didn’t like doing things for others.” Marianne’s a rare exception, as well as Claude. But surely she isn’t as special as those two. “Aren’t people usually doing things for you? Getting you tea, cleaning after seeing you flutter those eyelashes of yours…”

“I would feel terrible if I had Ferdinand make me a cup of tea right now, or have Lorenz do all the fighting for me…” They’re hurting too, and it’s a sin that it’s taken a war to change the way they view others. “I can’t slack off anymore. I used to have so much fun goofing off, worrying about my outfit for the ball… and we just watched so many people die.”

“Don’t you miss those simple days?” It’s a fairly redundant question, one with an obvious answer. “I used to worry about who I’d be spending the rest of my life with. That all sounds so silly now.”

Perhaps it’s silly because Hilda’s sitting right next to her, and she’s terribly in love, but why would Hilda pick her? 

“Well, we’re all gonna live to see the end of the war, right?” Hilda gives her hand a squeeze. It makes Dorothea’s heart ache terribly, how soft her skin is. “I know it sounds super silly, but can’t you look forward to that once it’s over?”

Her gaze lowers as it focuses on their fingers threaded together, nails scrubbed clean of dirt and blood. She’s sure enough people speak of her ways, of how she goes through men and women, of how no one is good enough for the former songstress who captured the hearts of thousands. Pretty Dorothea places herself on a pedestal, and turns up her nose at any potential suitors. Pretty Dorothea will lose her looks and voice, and no one’s going to want her; the war will have turned her ugly.

“And what if nobody chooses to be with me?” Her voice is but a quiet whisper, ashamed of her insecurities yet again. 

“As if!” Hilda gently sits her up straight, and grips both of her shoulders with a pout. “People are crazy if they wouldn’t want you! You’re one of the best people I know, Dorothea. You’ve told me all about the people you helped in the past five years, and you came back to fight for Claude and the professor! And you know I don’t say this about just anyone, either!”

“Not even Marianne? Claude?” She tries to give a weak smile. “Aren’t they just as important?”

“Well, duh!” Hilda knows a fake smile when she sees one, and Dorothea wonders why she attempted in the first place. “But you can be just as important too.”

Her heart skips a beat, eyes a little wider as Hilda’s sweet words wrap her up like a warm blanket. “You really think I’m that wonderful?”

“Of course I do.” Hilda’s voice softens a little, smile encouraging as ever. Her real ones are so sweet, and Dorothea chases the idea of wondering how sweet her lips have to taste. “You’ll find that perfect someone, and you’ll invite me to the wedding, right? I could totally do your makeup, and make you the prettiest veil to match your dress.” 

Dorothea finds herself at a mental crossroads. Either she allows herself this moment to be vulnerable, to spill her heart out and hope Hilda catches it in those soft hands of hers. She’ll have someone to call her own, to give her a reason to truly smile during this wretched war. Hilda will make her fear the future a little less, and make her remember how sweet hope used to be.

Or… or nothing will change, and Dorothea will wonder why she ever found songs about heartbreak beautiful.

“And what if I thought I'd found that person?” Her pulse pounds in her ears in an erratic rhythm. 

“Oh? Who’s the lucky person?” Little stars dot those pretty pink eyes. “I gotta meet them, you know. If I don’t approve of them, then you _obviously_ can’t date them. My dear Dorothea deserves the very best this monastery has to offer!”

Despite herself, Dorothea giggles. “Why, Hilda, the person whose side I wish to be at is yours, if you’ll have me.”

“Huh?” Hilda ends up gawping, color flaring to her cheeks an instant. “Wait, you… you want me?” 

“I do. Why, I believe I’ve been quite enamored with you for quite some time.” She’s even lovelier when flustered--so cute! “And with someone as beautiful as you are, I’m sure you could steal any heart in all of Fodlan.”

“You can’t just… _say_ that and not… ooh, I didn’t prepare for this!” Despite how unprepared the poor girl seems, she goes to take Dorothea’s hands in her own. “You really want lazy ol’ Hilda, huh?”

“More than anyone else in this monastery, I’d wager.” They’re both terribly insecure, she knows, but it’s something they can find solace in together. “I’ve seen your true side, and you’ve seen mine. If we’re able to fancy another after all that, aren’t we a perfect match?”

My, isn’t she being so _bold!_ To think, moments ago, she was terrified. Seeing Hilda’s red face only causes her smile to widen, and finally, she can appreciate how warm her hands feel in her own. 

“I mean, we are the cutest girls here, right?” Ah, there’s that charm that causes her heart to flutter. “And you actually make me, _me,_ try my hardest. And if I’m gonna actually work hard, it should be to make you happy, and keep you safe.” 

A small part of her (alright, it’s rather large) desires to pull Hilda in close and kiss her absolutely silly. But she’ll let her finish her speech, just to see if her heart can truly soar. It’s charming to see yet another side of this woman she’s given her heart to. 

“We’ll make it to the end of this terrible war, and then I can take you home with me.” It’s Dorothea’s turn to go a bright red. “Goneril is super nice, and I just know Holst would adore you! I can put up with all his teasing, juuust this once.”  
  
“What a high honor you’ve given me!” A hand places itself on Dorothea’s chest in a dramatic fashion. “To know you wouldn’t complain about Holst in my presence… you truly know how to make a girl feel special, darling.”

It’s her job to treat Hilda just as well. Love is no longer a game to her, and Dorothea feels as though she’s ready to experience what it’s actually like. It’s a relief to no longer feel afraid, and the warmth of confidence that blooms within her chest brings their lips together as she squeezes Hilda’s hands with all the love in the world.

As her fantasies foretold, Hilda’s lips are soft, sweet like candy. Truthfully, it’s difficult to remember the last time Dorothea’s been this happy. Her heart desires to sing--she desires to sing!--of silly love ballads and saccharine words to describe what a first love truly entails.

The kiss lingers for yet a moment longer as Dorothea’s fingers glide across Hilda’s cheek, resting upon it, a perfect fit. It feels a sin to pull away, but it’s well worth it to see the dreamy haze that dances across her eyes. She simply cannot help herself, and leaves another kiss on Hilda’s cheek, pleased to see the lipstick stain that now decorates it.

“That’s a very lovely shade on you,” Dorothea remarks, “you should wear it more often.”

Hilda’s laugh is so her, it tickles her heart in such a delicate manner. “Well, if it makes you happy, I guess I’ll have to.” 

Something of a relieved sigh leaves her as she touches her forehead to Hilda’s, and she truly hasn’t stopped smiling. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve felt this hopeful, and yet scared at the same time. We’re going to have to keep each other safe if I’m to go home with you.” 

“I won’t let you down.” Hilda’s never done anything of the sort. “If there’s one person in this world I can’t disappoint, Dorothea, it’s you.” 

“We’ll learn to cast all these silly doubts aside one day, darling.” What a beautiful word. Dorothea wishes to taste it on her tongue forever. “To have a future where I can call you my beloved… that’s worth fighting for, isn’t it?” 

“Sounds perfectly good to me.” Hilda’s lips find hers again, and again, and again. “And after the war, who knows what we’ll do?” 

“I believe I have the answer to that one,” it’s charming the way they’ve smudged their lipstick, she notes, “we’ll be happy.”

And that alone is as good of a start as any.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, make sure to leave a comment/kudos! If you want to hear about future works and rambles, make sure to follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/that_nebbles)


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